


family

by Ekala



Category: Tron (Movies)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Incest, M/M, Mindfuck, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-21
Updated: 2011-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-26 06:54:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/280056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ekala/pseuds/Ekala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It was becoming routine, really.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	family

**Author's Note:**

> first bit of fic for my [fic commission/request/exchange/trade](http://ekala-sy-eph.livejournal.com/60426.html), dedicated to [brokenlevel](http://brokenlevel.tumblr.com). please don't hate me for this, fandom.

  
Ed Dillinger didn’t like to punish his son, but he couldn’t simply let it go when he botched their carefully-laid plans yet again. He would love to reward him, to let him bask in the glory bringing down Encom would bring. But he’d let his failure slide by once too often in recent years.

Dinner itself was almost torture enough for the boy. Ed had was under no delusion that his son liked him in the least. Respected, perhaps, and there was certainly a healthy amount of a need to prove himself, but he’d never _liked_ him, even as a child. Not that he had any reason to.

It was becoming routine, really. Junior would fail, Ed would invite him home for a night. They’d have a long, awkward, silent dinner, followed by moving into the living room where Ed would pour himself a bit of brandy. Junior would sit on the couch, still to the point of strangeness, purposefully and completely unmoving. They would sit in another round of awkward silence until Ed finished his drink, the near-unnoticable clink of glass against the end table coaster the catalyst for everything else.

His grip was strong and unrelenting on Junior’s arm. He used to resist, but he’d realized how futile that was, by now, so it took barely a tug to drape him over his father’s lap. Ed let him simmer there for a moment, rolling his sleeves just halfway up his forearms, removing his heavy watch and setting it aside his empty glass on the end table.

He reached under his son, carefully unbuckling his belt, slipping the leather out and rolling it into a tight circle before placing it on the couch beside them. Junior’s hands dug into the leather, knuckles already white. Ed would have reprimanded him but it would have had little use, seeing as he was already being punished. Hopefully he wouldn’t leave marks. This was already the third couch he’d had to buy and it wouldn’t do to have to spend more money on this.

Junior’s pants slid down easily, briefs following them, of course only halfway down his legs. Ed did not desire his child and certainly didn’t want to see him any more bare than he had to. He had tried this through clothes and it had only brought Junior back for more even more quickly than usual.

The first slap was loud, as always. Loud against the rustle of clothes and the electric hum of lights.

“One.” Another, and another. Each counted meticulously, sounds sharp in the thick night air. Although, as always, a complete lack of sound from Junior. He never made noise, he was too prideful for that. Too proud. A family failing, it seemed.

Around twenty he felt the first teardrops hit his leg. Some sort of emotion still buried in his chest twisted even as he shoved it back down with all the force he could muster. The child needed punishment and he would never fail to provide anything he needed. Not again.

At fifty he stopped, releasing the boy completely. Junior held himself up on shaky arms, obviously mustering his strength after a moment and pushing up and off of him, face red with shame, he’d assumed, but also with pain and his too-obvious arousal. Ed would never understand that, really. But it was just another facet of the punishment, now, and Junior _needed_ it as much as he needed the oxygen to breathe. So he’d give it to him.

Junior didn’t bother resisting. He moved just enough to turn on the couch, arms tensed over the back of the couch, legs spread as much as he could get them with his pants still bunched around his knees. Ed shouldn’t have been surprised anymore at how red his skin could get. Perhaps he simply blocked this out of his memory. Of course he did. What kind of father would want to remember this, remember the feel and the sound and the—

He sneered at himself, already standing and unbuckling his own belt, pulling it in another tight circle and laying it beside his son’s. It didn’t matter what he wanted. That hadn’t mattered since he left Encom.

Which was why he was stroking himself to full hardness even as he felt the last flakes of emotion fall away from his heart. Why he pulled the condom out of the drawer in the end table, rolling it over himself carefully and lubing them both up in the most efficient manner he could manage, ignoring the hitch of breath as he moved that way or the clench of his _son’s_ muscles around him.

If he thought, if he let emotion get through, he couldn’t do the right thing for him. He wouldn’t be able to do what his son needed to continue living the way he should. Doing what he loved, doing it well, and getting known for it.

Junior sobbed, once. Just before they finished. It felt like a knife driving into an old, old wound.

Cleanup was always slow and methodical. Dispose of the condom. Zip up the fly. Rebuckle the belt, unroll his sleeves and rebutton the cuffs, put back on his watch. He’d take his glass into the kitchen, clean it out, put it back on the shelf. By the time he was done Junior was also buttoned up and away, face carefully schooled into indifference once more.

“Keep out of trouble.” Junior nodded, refusing to look him in the eye, and left, door shutting with a final click behind him.

Ed couldn’t cry anymore.  



End file.
